by Emily Snow
"And whatever I put on will cover it." I sink down beside her on the sofa, securing a deep scowl when I plant a kiss on her cheek. "See, some of it's already wiped off."
As I stand, she rubs her hand over her cheek and glances at the bright red color staining the tips. "I still think you should change the color.” But she tugs down the hem of my blazer and smoothes her palm over it. "Do you have your phone charger? Your pepper spray?"
"Yes, Mother." I feel like I'm seventeen again and going to prom. Only then, it was Dad teasingly telling my date that A) he had been in the Army, and B) he was from Mississippi, and he knew where all the best swamps were located.
"If I don't like something Mr. Exley says, I'll be sure to give him a quick blast of bear mace."
"You're a..." she starts as I open the front door, but I'm laughing so I can barely hear what she says. I imagine she's calling me a smartass.
It wouldn't be the first time.
I stress about the red lipstick all the way to Boston—up until the moment I walk through the entrance of EXtreme Effects. Because I need paper towels to do away with the bold pop of color, I’ve made up my mind to immediately find the bathroom and put on the muted pink Mom suggested I wear. But I stop short when I come face-to-face with Jace. He's parked behind Daisy's desk, his phone to his ear and both of his boot-clad feet resting next to a neat stack of paperwork.
I've never walked into my boss' office to find him with his feet on a desk.
Ever.
"Yes. No, but I'll put you in touch with her early next week," he's saying to whoever he's speaking to. As I start to back up to give him privacy, his slate-blue eyes connect with mine over the tops of his boots. “Stay,” he mouths.
To watch him talk on the phone? I take another step backward, causing his dark brows to arch.
Covering the receiver, he tilts his head to one side and gives me a stern look that leaves a hard knot in the center of my chest. "Weren’t you listening, Williams? I told you to stay.”
My face tingles. Nobody’s talked to me in such a commanding tone since I was an intern, and the fact it’s coming from Jace makes my head spin. Because it’s both offensive and—to my mortification—a slight turn on. I cross my arms over my chest and play with the leather strap on my purse until he speaks my name again.
“I need your email,” he says. “Lorelei’s in London is on the line about a custom order for IFD next January, and they're interested in doing some heavy marketing in their store and on their website. Since you’re our new marketing wizard, I want to put them in touch with you.”
I have no idea what IFD is, and I have no idea why Lorelei’s is calling him at midnight their time, but his wizard comment makes me forget his barked command from before. Fighting the urge to smile, I scribble my email address on a piece of paper and push it over to him. He bobs his head to the row of chairs beside Daisy's desk, so I sit on the edge of one, nervously drumming my fingertips against my knees.
"Right. Do you have a pen handy?” he asks when he returns to his call. "Her name is Lucy Williams, and her email address is [email protected]." I notice that, when he reads the last name aloud, he scowls. A moment passes then I become the recipient of that dark stare.
Squaring my shoulders, I face it without flinching.
What the hell is his problem?
He's still glaring at me as he tells his caller, "No, it's Lucy with a Y. That’s right, L-U-C-Y."
It's a struggle to keep my eyes on his while he wraps up his conversation, but when his attention finally lowers to my mouth, and he traces the curves of my red lips, I glance away to the steel clock on Daisy's desk, pretending the fancy cogs and hands are the most interesting thing I've seen in years. Dammit, Mom was definitely right. I shouldn't have worn red lipstick. I'm in the middle of anxiously running my fingertip over my mouth when Jace's voice drags me out of my thoughts.
"Stop that. You're going to smear it everywhere," he states sharply, drawing his feet off Daisy's desk and rising to his feet.
I forgot how tall he is—he’s at least six foot, and my heart thunders as I scan my gaze from his boots to the top of his dark, unkempt hair.
"I'm sorry, if it's too much, I can wipe it off. I wasn't sure what you meant, and I haven't received the company appearance code yet."
"Appearance code," he muses, the edges of his mouth quivering. He comes around to the front of the desk and leans his long body against it. I can try all I want to play the avoidance game, but I can't resist sweeping my eyes over the way his dark jeans seem to be made only for his legs or the way the short sleeves of his white tee shirt hugs his biceps. The last time I saw him, his flannel shirt hid most of the tattoos on his arms. Tonight, they're on full display—a colorful collection of words and patterns bursting over golden skin and thick muscles.
He crosses his arms over his chest, breaking my focus. "See something you like, love?"
"I'm just admiring the artwork." It's a lie, and he knows it. His grin widens. I reach up to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear and bite the inside of my lip once I realize there's not a strand out of place because it’s all pulled back into a ponytail. "So ... about that dress code?"
"If you haven't noticed, we're unorthodox here. We don't have one, have never had one, and don't plan on getting one anytime soon. Come in whatever pleases you. What you're wearing now is..." His voice trails off, and his blue-gray eyes settle on my black blazer. I shift uncomfortably and look down at my clothing.
"What I'm wearing now is what?"
"Very, very buttoned up."
I finger the top hook of my white shirt and give him a confused look. "I'm sorry, but how did you want me to dress? Unbuttoned?"
He crooks his finger at me, the gesture measured, seductive. Screw me sideways, how many women have tripped all over their own two feet answering to that call? "Come here."
I don't immediately move, so he lets out an irritated exhale and shoves away from the desk. He takes the chair directly beside mine and scoots close. I hold my breath because he smells incredible—like spice and sex and sin.
"May I?" he asks, and my brow creases even as my body turns toward his.
"May you what?"
"Help you out, Lucy." When I don't nod or shake my head to confirm or deny, he brushes the pad of his thumb over the lapel of my blazer. Our skin doesn’t make direct contact, but that doesn't halt the current from passing through my body. It settles between my chest and stomach, pinging between my heart and my core. He gives my blazer a soft tug. "Take this off," he orders.
I inhale sharply. He's asking me to take off clothes. Why is he asking me to take off my clothes? I shake my head so hard, my black ponytail swishes around my shoulders, swinging over the Roman numerals on his fingers. He stares at the hair curtaining his hand then he pushes it back. That mere motion, his fingers in my hair and against my shoulder, makes it hard to speak or think.
"Why do you—" I eventually start, but he releases a low, frustrated sound.
"Take. Off. The. Jacket. Please." Glowering at him, I shrug out of my blazer and drape it over my lap. "Now, undo these." He nudges the top two buttons of my white blouse with his knuckles, and in the process, captures my breath and holds it hostage.
I do as he asks, ignoring the way my fingers tremble and how my skin is hot to the touch as I open the first couple buttons. When my fingers skim his, I’m seconds from losing it, but I pretend that he’s not just doused the flames tearing through me with gasoline.
I exhale.
Then breathe in deeply for good measure.
“Much better,” he says.
"I wasn’t aware that stripping was in the job description,” I say in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine. It’s flimsy and broken. “If you tell me to take off my pants next, I swear I'm walking out of here."
“That would be a mistake, don’t you think?” He bends his dark head to mine, and our mouths are so close all it would take is a simple “mistake” for our lips to to
uch. For more. "Ahh, Williams. You’re just as I remember you," he suggests, the scent of his wintermint gum fanning my face.
“And how’s that?”
“Uptight.” Leaning back, he searches my hazel eyes. I sit up taller, so he won't notice the tremor that wanders down my spine. "You’re perfect now."
And here I was thinking red lipstick was adventurous. He returns to Daisy's desk, leaving me a mess, so I hug my arms around my stomach. "Wh-what time do we have to meet your client?" Seventy-five percent of the confidence I swept through the door with is gone now, replaced by uncertainty because he touched me.
Because our mouths were so close.
Because he’s not even aware of what he’s managed to do to me in a matter of minutes. And if he does know, he doesn’t seem to give a damn.
Sure enough, his expression is relaxed when his dark head pops up from sifting through paperwork. "Whenever." Stacking a small packet of papers, he slides them in a clipboard, grabs a pen from the cup on Daisy’s desk and then hands it to me.
It’s a non-disclosure agreement—I've signed one at every job I've worked at since graduate school—so I read over it silently, tapping the pen on the side of the clipboard in sync with my erratic heartbeat.
"No questions?" he asks, sounding surprised when I click one end of the pen and place the other to the paper.
"Don't share your design secrets and don’t share information about your clients."
“No photos without permission,” he adds. “Ever. That means no digital cameras and definitely no selfies while you’re at work—not even on the loo.”
I make a face. Because who the hell takes photos on the toilet?
“Yes, sir.” I scribble my name across the bottom of the page and then date it before returning the clipboard. I hate that our fingers graze again. And I hate the static sparking between our flesh. I offer him a tight smile despite it. "Anything else? Tax forms, direct deposit information, emergency—"
"Daisy will handle all that on Monday." He wiggles the clipboard from side to side before tossing it on her desk. "This couldn't wait, but now that it's taken care of, we're good." He gives my outfit—the one he’d personally picked apart with his hands and voice—another once over. "You'll ride with me. We’re going to Winchester, and I wouldn't want you to get lost on the way.”
"That's fine." But it's not because I'm scared shitless. The idea of sitting right beside him for god only knows how long curls my stomach into knots that likely won’t untangle until well after we’ve parted ways later tonight.
"No arguments?" He almost looks stunned, but when I shake my head, he recovers, grabs his keys and winks at me. "That's a good girl."
Jace is a fast driver—not that I'm surprised. I clutch my seatbelt as he bobs and weaves through traffic on the interstate and pray that the next curve will be the one that makes him slow the hell down. My prayers go unanswered. He drives with only one hand on the wheel, his focus split between the road and the occasional bold glance in my direction.
"You look positively green, Williams."
I grit my teeth while he takes a fifteen-mile per hour exit at a smooth forty. He never leaves the confines of the white lines, but it still terrifies me. I've gotten one speeding ticket in my life when I was twenty-two for driving six miles over. And sadly, that's probably the fastest I've ever gone. "The speed limit is sixty now,” I point out.
"And that motherfucker"—he nods at the sleek Corvette that whizzes past his black Challenger—"is going ninety. You can untwist your knickers. I promise to bring you back in one piece."
I hate the way his voice drops an octave lower when he mentions my underwear just as much as I hate the way my hand automatically goes to my chest. Hopefully, he attributes it to fear and not the fact the sound of his tongue working over the word “knickers” is like water to my thirsting ears. "Yes, but will that one piece you return still be breathing?" I mutter.
"Relax and listen to the music. You’ll thank me for it later.”
He doesn't seem affected by the harsh look I send in his direction, he only grins. I sit back in my seat and attempt to focus on the angsty sound of rock music as opposed to the frantic throbbing of my pulse. Whatever we’re listening to is admittedly catchy—a song called “Black Honey.” I won’t tell him that I’ll look up the artist later since he’ll likely rub it in my face that I enjoy something he’s introduced me to.
And having him sit beside me is about all the friction I can take from Mr. Jace Exley tonight.
"I’ve a question for you, Williams," he says several minutes later, after the song transitions to another good one—“Way Down We Go” by Kaleo. “Why do you still use Duncan in your email address?”
"It's ... old."
"Then make a new one. It's a Gmail account, so it can't be that hard to set up. Hell, your Snapchat and Instagram are even under Duncan."
I startle, scooting forward to look at him. “You found me on social media?”
“It’s in your email signature. No shit I looked you up.”
Sliding back, I twist my fingers together and stare down at my lap. "Why does it matter what last name I use?"
"Because I don't like it."
Why? I’m desperate to ask. Why don't you like it? What’s my last name matter to you if I do a good job? "You're bossy," I say, voicing none of the words I'm dying to say. He lifts a broad shoulder and gives me a pointed look.
"Technically, love, I am your boss. And as your boss, I'd rather you not use an email with the same last name as the man who called you a shitty person with poor work ethic and no regard for commitment."
"You spoke to him?" I blurt out in a voice that sounds like a pitiful whine. Jace nods. I tighten my arms around myself so forcefully my chest and stomach aches from the pressure. "And he said that?"
"Among other things. Which is why I'm glad you explained your situation before I checked your references. Your former employer—W-L-something or another—is very team Lucy, by the way. Even told me that they'd welcome you back with open arms, just as soon as the lawsuit with Tom, the wanker, is settled."
He knows about the suit. Shit. “I’m guessing that wanker bit is yours?”
“All me. You can take the man out of London, but—hell, you know how the rest goes.” He snorts and glares at the road. “Just so you’re aware, ten minutes on the phone with your ex and I wanted to elbow him in the nose for being such a little shit. What the fuck possessed you to marry someone like that? I bet he attends brunch at country clubs on Saturdays and golfs with his old schoolmates every Sunday.”
Tom plays soccer with his friends on Sundays, but still, Jace has the man figured out after one conversation. I sink down further into the leather seat. "Christ."
"He's not here, love. Only me. Why didn't you tell me about the lawsuit?"
"Because it didn't—" I drag in a breath that burns my lungs then move my arms from my chest to run my hands through my pulled-back hair. "I didn't think it mattered. Because it’s not a lawsuit at this point … he’s just contacted his attorney.” Which means the lawsuit is probably inevitable. Because Tom’s a turd.
"It wouldn’t have changed my decision. I just would've liked to have known all the facts."
"So, after you knew them all, why did you call me?"
"I wanted the best person for the job. Pending lawsuit or not, you've got a reputation for getting shit done, and that's what I need." One corner of his mouth tilts into a half-smile. "Plus, like I said, your ex-husband is an arse I'd like to punch in the face a couple of times. I’m sure it would do him some good."
This is the second time he's done this—favor my side over Tom's. I feel a sharp tug in my chest at the support from the man who’d driven me crazy when we were kids. After I got over the initial numbness caused by the destruction of my marriage, I found myself stunned by the number of friends in San Francisco who sided with Tom. The same people that we vacationed with in Vegas and brought into our home for Stir-Fridays thought I was
being irrational, and that had stung. He's going through a rough time. If he cheated on you, there must have been a good reason. He deserves a second chance … don't be a bitch, Lucy. I had heard it all, but I also wasn’t willing to listen to excuses for Tom’s bad behavior.
Jace hasn’t even come close to defending my ex-husband, and I appreciate that more than he’ll ever know.
"Yes," I murmur at last, fireworks exploding beneath my skin because I feel his blue stare against the side of my face. "He is a jerk.”
"So, make a new email."
There it is again—that commanding edge to his voice—but I find myself nodding, despite common sense yelling for me to tell him to shove his bossiness up his own arse. "I will.”
“See. It’s really not so hard to listen.”
He stops his black Challenger in front of the wrought iron gate of a sprawling, white house that's on at least a two-acre lot, a rarity for Winchester with its small lot sizes and subdivisions. Letting down his window, he punches the intercom button. I can't hear exactly what he’s saying over the rock version of Taylor Swift's "Blank Space" blaring from the stereo, but a moment later, the gates swing open.
He drives forward.
I tilt my head to the side, marveling over the trees lining each side of the wide driveway. "Private collector?"
"Overachiever." He gives me a look that tells me he thinks I'm the same way. "He likes these parties held at his home, so he's willing to invest in the cause."
The cause? What the hell is he investing in—sitting around and watching the minute hand go around a pretty clock? I don't have time to ask questions, because as soon as he maneuvers his car between a sleek Mercedes and a Range Rover, he walks around to open my door for me.
I gawk up at him.
"Why’s your mouth wide open?" he demands, rolling his eyes when I ignore his hand and grip the door frame to hoist myself out of the tiny muscle car. "Ahh, that's right. Germaphobe."
"I'm not a germaphobe," I hiss as we walk side by side up the staircase leading to the front door.